New Order
by Fever Dream
Summary: Mical leads the movement to restore the Jedi Temple on Coruscant but his political skills and his commitment to the light side are challenged by the appearance of an old rival with secrets. The second part of the Sun and Moon trilogy.
1. Part 1: Bait and Switch

_New Order, Part 1: Bait and Switch _

_1. There is no emotion, there is peace._

Mical cast a discreet glance at the opalescent krayt dragon pearl mounted on the senator's desk. The flawless pearl was unusually large, the size of a fist, and had been polished to high sheen. The presumptive office of the senator from Coruscant appeared more like a museum, featuring objets d'art and exotic curios gathered from across the Galaxy. The idea of trying to do business under the watchful gaze of a stuffed albino tach did not appeal to Mical, but he knew that Senator Parcelus Rasmuth's friendship, or, at the very least, his patronage, would be essential in the work ahead.

"Do you like it?" the silky voice inquired from across the mahogany desk.

Mical started slightly, embarrassed that he had been caught staring. As a representative of the Order, he had wanted to appear disinterested in the senator's displays of wealth, but it was hard to draw one's eyes away from items so obviously purchased to be gawked at.

"A present from Tatooine," Rasmuth said, lounging back in his chair. "Over the years, I have received a number of surprisingly charming gifts from that wretched little sandtrap. Tusken gaffi sticks, for instance, possess a certain primitive appeal for humble collectors such as myself. Now, before we move to on more serious matters, I don't suppose you'd care for some Vistulo brandale?"

"No, thank you, Senator," Mical replied.

He wondered if Rasmuth was testing him. It wouldn't be the first time a member of the Senate had doubted his commitment to the Order and its Codes. After all, that was why he was here in the first place.

"Oh, I see. You do not partake. Very laudable for a Jedi, but regrettable nonetheless. This is a remarkably good vintage. I hope you don't mind if I indulge?"

The senator didn't wait for an answer since the question itself was only a formality. He poured the liquor into a crystal chalice and took an appreciative sip.

Rasmuth's face was as languid as ever, but under those heavy eyelids, the senator's eyes were observing his visitor as carefully as he might inspect any new addition to his collection. "Now, my friend, we have a little problem to deal with. It's going to require some damage control. You know I am very much a supporter of this Jedi restoration project of yours, but I'm afraid that my influence won't do you much good if you can't control your own people."

"I understand that," Mical answered, taking care to control his voice. He didn't plan to get flustered under the senator's scrutiny. Rasmuth would enjoy seeing him crack. "While the Exile's presence in the Council might have contributed to initial support for the cause, I believe that over time, she would have been a liability. She was originally cast out of the Order for a reason."

Senator Rasmuth took another sip of Vistulo brandale, his lips coiling into a bemused smile. "You need to get out of the Temple more often. That Exile woman is yesterday's gizka in the works. Our current concern is much closer to home."

He reached into a side drawer of his enormous desk, retrieving a black datapad. The senator's fleshy fingers prodded a few buttons and then he handed the device to Mical. "I think the face will be familiar enough."

Mical stared down at the screen and as much as he wanted to conceal his anxiety, his brow furrowed. The picture was grainy but the face was unmistakable to him, even though he knew it was a mask calculated to blend in amidst any crowd. Nothing out of the ordinary: brown hair, brown eyes, average height and build. As unexceptional as the man appeared, Mical couldn't have forgotten the face if he'd tried, and over the past months, he had made the effort many times. The heading on the intelligence entry was only thing he didn't immediately recognize, but it confirmed all of his worst suspicions: "Jaq Rand, alias 'Atton Rand'".

"I take it you're acquainted with him?" Rasmuth chuckled. "I must say this Rand fellow seems like a very unpleasant character. If you scroll down a bit, you'll notice he has quite the resume, too, between his old job offing Jedi and his numerous other 'distinctions' as smuggler, gambler and small-time spice dealer. I have trouble understanding how your Exile friend could have been foolish enough to hand him a lightsaber."

Mical scrolled down the page, his eyes devouring the names and details. Why hadn't Republic intelligence informed him when he could have intervened, when he could have stopped her from leaving on a ship with a Sith assassin?

He managed to keep his voice level. "Do you have any more information? Where is he now?"

"Are you sure you wouldn't like a drink?"

"Yes," Mical said. "I'm certain."

Rasmuth pressed his hands together, a massive blood-red ring gleaming on one sausage-like finger. "He's in your backyard, I'm afraid. He's been spending a significant amount of his time trolling some notoriously unsavory cantinas in the Underlevels. As you can imagine, the idea of a drunken ex-assassin from the criminal classes stumbling around in a Jedi robe and, yes, brandishing a lightsaber, is not particularly comforting to my constituencies."

Mical knew that was a severe understatement.

"I also doubt that it will enhance the Senate's confidence in your ability to control other potential rogues and defectors," Rasmuth continued. "I can use whatever influence I possess to ease the negotiations, but there's only so much I can do without recourse to such mind tricks as you lucky Force-users employ. Sadly, I myself am merely a servant of the public good, Master Jedi. "

Mical had become accustomed to the arrogance of the Coruscanti elites, but Rasmuth's well-oiled voice dripped an unprecedented level of condescension. He wondered if it was possible for the senator to use the term 'Master Jedi' with any more obvious irony.

"I appreciate your concern, Senator. How would you suggest that we deal with this…situation?"

"Well, my friend, there are many ways of ridding oneself of gizkas," Rasmuth answered in his most insinuating manner. "In this case, I would suggest that you choose the most decisive and efficient method available. I know that you Jedi have qualms about such things, but I think the body count in that file makes some very persuasive arguments. And lest we forget, those are only the ones we know about."

Mical frowned. "Is he alone? Is there anyone accompanying him?"

"He is alone…now. Several months ago, an agent spotted him with a woman matching the description of your Exile, in Aldera, of all places. But our spy was quite at a loss when the lady in question up and disappeared without a trace."

"That's very unlikely. No one simply disappears. Surely there must be evidence of her whereabouts?"

"Hmm," Rasmuth rubbed his chin and cultivated a pensive look. "Well, I imagine it wasn't a major concern at the moment. Besides, you know Intelligence. Good agents go to Onderon, Manaan, where the action is. Bad agents, well, they get to putter around Alderaan."

Or Dantooine, for that matter, Mical thought. He knew Republic Intelligence had never held his spying abilities in high regard. He was marked as the 'Jedi' who wasn't a Jedi, a noble but embarrassing failure. After all that training, he'd become a bureaucrat, a paper-pusher, dutifully reporting his observations but keeping his hands clean - too clean, he suspected, for his superiors' liking. And then the Ebon Hawk and Exile had come swooping into his life and everything had changed; in some ways, not for the better.

Rasmuth reached again into that mysterious desk drawer and pulled out a data chip no larger than the tip of his index finger. "I think this little chip of mine might prove especially interesting to you. It's encrypted with all the information the agent reported during his surveillance."

The senator placed the chip on the table.

Mical's hand darted forward and seized it.

The idea of reading the report made him queasy, but he knew that no amount of meditation could divert him from looking at it. It was the same torturous compulsion that had forced him to stand by and watch helplessly as she'd given up everything the Order stood for and fled into the arms of a murderer.

"Yes, I thought you'd be eager to possess it," Rasmuth smiled. "Now, if you get bored with reading as I often do, there are a few holo-images to keep you entertained. I must admit, your Exile was a fascinating specimen, although generally I prefer icy blondes and those enchanting Echani creatures. Nevertheless, it's a tragic waste, isn't it?"

Mical took in a deep breath. "Any death is a cause for sorrow, but her life was not wasted."

"Oh, I certainly didn't mean to imply that," Rasmuth replied. "I simply meant to suggest that some deaths are more unfortunate than others. The untimely removal of some sentients may be decidedly beneficial to the galaxy, I think."

With the poisonous, precious data-chip clutched in his hand, Mical rose abruptly from his chair. "Perhaps, Senator, but I doubt that either of us have the wisdom to distinguish the 'valuable' lives from the 'worthless' ones. Now if you'll excuse me, I must attend to some business at the Temple."

Rasmuth nodded his head of artfully silvered hair. "Of course, of course, I won't keep you. I only hope that you will attend to this matter with the resolution that leadership in a restored Jedi Council will require. I should be very sorry indeed to see this little incident ruin all our hard work. My administrative droid, Septimus, will show you out."

Mical didn't like the look of the protocol droid looming outside the door. Although it had ornamental gold plating and a sleek modified head, it bore a disturbing resemblance to a refurbished HK-50 model.

"I can show myself out."

The senator's head was bowed over the intelligence files. He didn't bother to look up at his departing guest. "Oh no, I must insist. It's a very long corridor, you see. I'd hate for you to get lost on your way to the exit."

Septimus took a few steps towards Mical. Although the droid's hands had the primary occupation of holding serving trays and organizing electronic files, the Jedi healer was certain they were also capable of blasting any organic within 200 paces.

"[Helpful Suggestion] In the interest of your continued comfort, it is recommended that you follow me this way, please."

Mical walked after the droid. He passed back through the narrow hallway ornamented with a selection of carefully composed holo-projections. There were cheerful images of the senator and his family, their faces frozen in smiles, and inspiring portraits of the senator at a podium, his hands raised in a gesture of paternal beneficence. There were touching pictures of the senator comforting a diverse array of Undercity orphans and shaking hands with tradespeople from The Works. Mical had surveyed them all with interest on other occasions, but now he just wanted the images out of his sight. He moved almost as quickly as the attending droid could desire, eager to get away from the apartments and back to the calming influence of the Temple.

At last, they reached the double doors leading out to the private turbolift. Septimus regarded the departing visitor.

"[Recitation:] Senator Rasmuth has appreciated your visit, sentient. He looks forward to addressing your concern in a timely matter. Senator Rasmuth is committed to helping the people of Coruscant achieve a more prosperous tomorrow within a peaceful Republic. He hopes that he can rely on your support. "

Mical knew better than to answer the canned spiel. He turned away, the data-chip buried in his hand like the seed of some loathsome plant. There was a hatred simmering inside him, rage and despair that he knew had no place in the mind of a Jedi.

She had always seemed to think that he was without emotion, that he lived in a shimmering world of ideals. She had not known that it was discipline that he lived on and a soldiery of spirit that kept his feelings tightly within ranks and made them march. And now it was too late to make her understand.

Entering the turbolift, he began the descent back to Fellowship Square.

He was pondering his options.

Atton stared down at the bottom of his empty glass. The Sith's Spit didn't have the comforting ambiance of his old Nar Shaddaa watering holes. For one thing, none of the glasses were ringed with the same thick layer of scum, specks of Force knows what hugging the cups in a filthy embrace. He'd noticed that there were also a lot more people around here who still had all their original body parts, although many of the bodies in question were rotting from the inside out with some help from death sticks and good old-fashioned hard living. When he took his nightly stroll to the cantina, the lurid faces of the junkies leered out at him from the stoops of run-down apartments with the gaunt cheeks and hollowed eyes of corpses. He was getting used to people staring at him. A guy who dresses like a Jedi, carries a lightsaber, and gets trashed every night in the local dive is bound to attract attention. In fact, he was counting on it.

In a feeble attempt at interior decor, The Sith's Spit had a long mirror installed along the back of the bar. Every time he looked up from his drink, he caught an eyeful of his own shadow-crossed face in the cracked glass in front of him. Under the blue lights of the cantina, he had the look of a drowned man washed ashore.

Still, a drink in hand and couple games of pazaak were a hell of a lot better than moping around, thinking about the woman who had abandoned him to chase ghosts and fairytales across the dark void of uncharted space. Sometimes he wished that he had walked away first, before she'd had the chance, if only so that he could imagine the end had been his choice. When he had eight or nine jumas in him, it was much easier to pretend he didn't still ache every time his arm reached across the bed in the morning and it dawned on him afresh that she was gone. At the moment, he was still a little too sober to believe his own lies.

From the corner of his eye, he glimpsed a female twi'lek sidling up to the stool next to his. Women around here seemed to like the Jedi robes. They figured he presented a challenge to their charms. But if he did, it had nothing to do with any damned Order.

"I think you need another drink," the twi'lek said, gesturing to the bartender. "This one is on me."

A purple hand decked with long, crimson fingernails slid ten credits across the counter.

He turned to inspect his benefactor in more detail. It was always a gamble in murky cantina lighting, but from this angle, she looked good, much too good for this end of town. He was sober enough to know he was ogling her and drunk enough not to care. If she offered, he wasn't going to refuse smoldering eyes, full lips and a nice pair of lekku.

"Thanks. I think I could use that drink."

As she leaned on the bar, he noticed a jagged scar running from just below her wrist to the edge of her elbow. Realizing that he'd observed it, she quickly turned the scar away. It was a rough neighborhood alright.

"So, Jedi, you have a name to go with that lightsaber?"

"Yeah, I have a few," he said. "But some of them aren't fit for polite conversation."

She gave him a coy, close-lipped smile. "Who says this is a polite conversation?"

The jumpy Bith bartender set a new glass of juma down in front of him.

He picked it up and took a gulp, enjoying the way it scorched his tongue and warmed his throat. With every drink, he could feel himself getting closer and closer to that transcendent moment of inebriation, the moment when he'd feel the little 'click' in his head that would let him go completely numb.

"Point taken," he said. "So are you always this generous with your credits?"

"When I have a reason to be," she replied. "The truth is, I've had my eye on you, Jedi, and I'd like to get to know you a little more…intimately."

He felt a sudden twinge of guilt. But it was over. He hadn't promised Shira anything and she sure as hell hadn't gone running after Revan wearing an Aratech chastity belt. He'd head back to this little twi'lek's apartment, get what he needed and clear out before the garage compression droids whirled out to clean up the night's accumulation of trash.

"Why not?" he muttered. "There are certain kinds of intimacy I like."

The twi'lek gave him a wry smile. "Just not the kinds that involve a lot of talking."

"If you want lots of talk and no action, you should go find yourself a senator."

"Why don't we get out of here?" she whispered. "My place isn't far and I'd be interested to find out what the Force can do for me."

He guzzled down the last drops of his drink, slid off the bar stool and followed her as she sashayed out of the cantina.

They walked down a back alley stacked high with compacted garbage and approached a tenement building, one of the few in the district that still had its grimy, black-barred windows intact. The windows, however, were so dirty that he couldn't imagine they would provide a view. But, hell, what in this section of town was worth looking at anyway? Underneath the graffiti and soot, it was still possible to catch glimpses of the tenement's original beige-coloured walls.

As they entered the darkened stairwell, his hands strayed over the fleshy curve of her hips, pulling her towards him. Closing his eyes, he tried to ignore the sweet, sickly scent of cheap perfume. It would have been easier to get used to if he could have made it to that eighth or ninth drink.

"Sorry," the twi'lek said. But she didn't sound apologetic. The once breathy voice was now hard and flat as the concrete floor.

"What?"

His eyes shot open just in time to see her mouth curl into a sardonic smile before he took a heavy blow to the skull.


	2. Part 2: Fault Lines

_New Order, Part 2: Fault Lines_

_2. There is no ignorance, there is knowledge._

Waking up with a splitting headache, he was not surprised to find himself encircled by sizzling beams of white-hot energy. By this point in his life, he'd come to accept that wherever he went, it was almost inevitable that he would end up being imprisoned in a force cage. He'd seen the inside of so many that he'd become a connoisseur of sorts. The holding cells used by the Telos TSF, for example, were relatively spacious and comfortable, whereas the ones on Peragus had barely allowed you enough room to take a deep breath. His current accommodations were definitely more reminiscent of the Peragus approach to criminal checked his holster, his belt and his robe. The lightsaber was gone, the blasters were missing and the little schutta had taken all his heard the familiar sound of heavy boots tramping loudly over metal floors, but the idea didn't connect in his head until he saw Mira enter the room. She didn't look too happy to see him.

"You have a lot of explaining to do… Jaq."

Where did she get that from? He'd never told any of the old crew except Shira, and he doubted she would make a special pit stop on her way to the Unknown Regions to gossip with a certain red-headed bounty hunter.

"The name's Atton, Mira. Remember now? Maybe this will jog your memory: I used to beat you at pazaak."

"Don't play innocent with me," Mira said, baring pointed teeth in a menacing grin. "I've know about your file from Republic Intelligence. I always knew you were a sleaze, but I never figured you for a murderer. Not because you're so moral. Mainly because I thought you were too stupid to get away with it."

He didn't like the sound of that file, but he had no idea how a broad like Mira would be able to get her sticky fingers on it. Republic agents don't usually let some girl with an exposed stomach and five layers of purple eye-shadow stroll into their databases, no matter how many home-cooked grenades she's packing.

"You need to lay off the spice. My supposed 'file from Republic intelligence' is probably just some Exchange thug's idea of a sick joke," he replied. "Which one of them put the bounty out this time? I hope they're not valuing me at less than 1000 credits."

"I'm doing this one free of charge. For old time's sake," Mira said. "Where is she, Rand?"

He snickered. "Can you be a little clearer with your question? I've known a lot of 'shes', including the schutta you paid to lure me out of the cantina."

"Yeah, you don't have much luck with twi'leks, do you?" Mira replied. "I'm talking about Shira, you idiot. What the hell did you do with her?"

"I think what I 'did with her' and what she did with me should be pretty damn obvious by now," Atton sneered. "We weren't exactly discreet."

"Always the frackin' comedian. I hope you can come up with a better answer than that for Mical."

"Oh, he's 'Mical' to you now, is he? Old Mic must be a real important guy to force you to call him that."

Suddenly things were making a bit more sense. Coming to Coruscant had seemed like the easiest way to take a few shots at the Order while he did what came natural. He'd figured it might be fun to wear his Jedi costume out on his little drinking excursions and see what he could stir up. At most, he thought they'd send a bored knight down to give him a talking to, but now it seemed he was getting an audience with the Master himself. That was fine by him. Maybe he'd get the chance to finally smash a fist into that smug face after all.

Mira glowered at him. "Where did you leave her? She's dead, isn't she?"

He almost threw up his arms in frustration, but then he remembered the imminent possibility of electrical burns. "Look, I don't know where she is, whether she's dead or alive. She got it into her head to go and she went."

"Yeah? Where to?"

"The Unknown Regions." Why was it that the truth always sounded so unconvincing?

"Likely story," Mira scoffed. "Are the Unknown Regions a little mound of dirt on Alderaan? Because that I'd believe."

He choked down a horrified laugh. "You think I killed her? Are you insane?"

"I'm no advocate, but let's look at the evidence, Rand. You get your jollies killing Jedi. She's a Jedi. The two of you go running off to Alderaan and only one of you comes back. Care to explain that?"

"Alright, I'll spell it out for you. She picks up T3, gets on the Hawk and burns sky out of there. Right now she's off searching for more Sith to kill."

"Fine," Mira said. "Stick to that story. We'll see what the serum gets out of you later."

She stormed away, leaving him alone in a holding cell with one raging hangover.

Mical loved the High Council Chamber. He loved its marble floors embellished with swooping arabesques and the prospect of the city framed by its many windows. He even loved the dust that still hung upon it after the years of abandonment, rising in faint clouds and making the room seem even older and more solemn than it was. The only things that troubled him and prevented him from enjoying his role on the Council as much as he should have were those empty seats and the thought that they could be filled. The High Council Chamber had twelve chairs and after all his efforts, Mical could only fill four of them. Until recently, he'd still carried some hope of gaining two more Council members. There had been two known Jedi who were steady hold-outs – Shira Casema, his former Master, and an old man named Jolee Bindo.

Shira represented one empty chair he didn't want to think about. He'd scoured the Force for her presence but the only traces he could find of her were in the energies of the ones she had trained, the ones who had followed her. She had become a long trail of broken Force bonds and a series of images frozen on a data-chip, images that had formed a disturbing background to most of his thoughts as of late. Each day, he felt with greater certainty that she had been murdered by the man she had trusted, the killer of Jedi who waited in a holding cell now, unaware that four Jedi would determine whether he would live or die.

The incident surrounding Bindo had been less grim, but just as discouraging. The old hermit was remarkably spry for his age, which could only be conjectured from appearances since he refused to provide a number. After telling Mical and Juhani a variety of disjointed, rambling and seemingly unrelated stories, he'd finally refused to join the Council because he didn't think he was "old enough" to spend his time telling other people what to do. Juhani and, later Bastila, had not seemed particularly surprised by this patently bizarre statement, but it had driven Mical to maddening levels of frustration. How in the Force were they expected to rebuild the Order, to train padawans and develop credibility for their cause, when the Jedi themselves were off playing dejarik in a Wookie hovel or worse yet, playing house with Sith assassins?

Visas glided into the room, the hood of her brown robe still angled to obscure the upper portion of her pale face. It was comforting to have someone on the council who seemed to be a friend.

Juhani and Bastila entered just behind her and glancing at them from his Council seat, Mical could see that Bastila was in another one of her moods. Her lips were pursed, her blue eyes narrowed and her robe was aggressively well-pressed today.

"I suppose we need to discuss this problem of a prisoner now, since you so rashly chose to capture one for us," Bastila said. She lowered herself into a Council chair that just happened to be diametrically opposed to Mical's own. "But as you say, it's a 'political decision'. Perhaps you'd care to explain the politics for us?"

Mical missed the old days of decorum, the ones in which people had filed in and out of the chamber respectfully, addressing one another as 'Master' rather than simply launching into their first grievance. He had a feeling that any holo-recording taken of these latest council sessions would not go down in the annals of Jedi lore.

"There are two matters that we need to consider here," Mical said. "Initially, I think we need to take into account what we know about Rand and the potential threat he poses to the Order. He's a proven Sith assassin and I believe it is quite likely that he has recently resumed his activities."

"If you're alluding to the disappearance of your former teacher, I think you're being absurdly precipitous. From what I can recall, she was flighty even when she was in the Academy. She probably just moved on to her next Force bond," Bastila interjected. "Besides, you managed to share a ship with this man for nearly half a year. If he were so intent on killing Jedi, you'd think he'd have murdered you all in your sleep."

Mical frowned. Her objection was a reasonable one, but he didn't plan to inform her of the fact. "May I finish? I'm simply saying that I would like to ensure the safety of our members and if it is possible, discover the whereabouts of a Jedi who could have held a place on this council."

Bastila looked ready to interrupt him again, but he spoke in a voice forceful enough to trammel hers down.

"Furthermore, I think we need to consider the fact that he has received Force training and has been seen carrying a lightsaber. Any wrongdoing, even a seemingly minor infraction, committed by him will be a political liability for other Jedi and for the Order itself. I don't think I need to tell you how delicate our relationship with the Republic is right now and how necessary it is that we win back the trust of the Senate. There are many people who believe that the Sith and the Jedi feed off one another, who think that the end of the Jedi will necessarily mean the obliteration of the Sith."

Juhani remained standing at the edge of the circle. Throughout all their council sessions, she had preferred to pace the room, a hunted look on her face as though the chamber was nothing but a vast cage. Now the Cathar's golden eyes were focused on Mical, dark-rimmed eyes that never seemed to blink.

"Then we must show them that they are wrong. But I do not like this continual concern with politics. These senators you meet with, they do not seem like worthy men."

Mical sighed. "I'll confess that, for the most part, I have found little to admire in them. But if we are to make the Order effective enough to serve people, we require resources from the Republic. Ask your friend, Admiral Onasi. I'm sure he has stories to tell about what happens when the Senate won't allocate enough funds for proper supplies and equipment. Even with the best of intentions, if we don't secure the Republic's aid, we'll be sending our knights and our padawans out to distant battlefields to die."

Bastila leaned forward in her chair. "Your rhetoric is all very good, but what does this have to do with the prisoner?"

"The two are intimately linked," Mical answered. "That prisoner stands between us and Senate's support. Until we prove that we can police rogue Jedi, they won't ratify the bill."

Mical glanced at Visas, who, as always, seemed to be biding her time before she spoke. Would she support him in what he was about to suggest?

She and 'Atton' had never seemed particularly friendly, but over the past months, he'd come to realize that many of his perceptions of the incidents aboard the Ebon Hawk had been distorted at best and utterly false at worst. Visas and the prisoner had both come from the Sith – perhaps she would be driven to sympathize with him? It made him shudder to think that Visas herself might have accumulated a list of slaughtered Jedi as long as Jaq's. In fact, it had occurred to him that all of the other Council members had fallen to the dark side at one point or another. In Mical's mind, this was something that made for very bad publicity.

Folding her hands together, Bastila regarded him with the smug smile of the perennial teacher's pet. Watching the smile creep across her admittedly lovely face, Mical wondered if he ever wore an expression that knowing, that arrogant.

"So how do you suggest that we 'police' a known Jedi killer?" she inquired.

He spoke slowly, weighing his words and watching Bastila's reaction. "As I see it, we have three options. We could keep him prisoner and try to win him to our side. Knowing him and his capability for mental resistance, I doubt the success of this enterprise. Alternatively, we could confiscate his lightsaber, his robes and anything else linking him to the Order and drop him off on some backwater like Deralia, or better yet, Hoth. I think this is a more practical idea, but it is also a temporary solution and right now, we could use permanency." He paused. "Finally, there is the possibility, an unsavoury one, perhaps, of quietly -"

"I hope you're not suggesting what I think you are," Bastila interrupted. "I understand that your old master's teaching methods left a vast deal to be desired, but surely you are aware that Jedi do not execute their prisoners."

"We live in dangerous times," Mical said. "Besides, that was not always the case,"

Bastila gave a sharp little laugh. "These times are no more dangerous than civil war."

He had already anticipated this kind of response from her. In her mind, any prisoner would be Revan. He had gone through the histories and he could produce occasions in which Jedi had resorted to the humane execution of Sith prisoners, but every instance he could cite would immediately be eclipsed by the glorious myth of Revan's redemption.

"Yes, but Revan's mind and body were nearly destroyed, which certainly helped the Order in the time-consuming process of removing the vestiges of his old identity. And Revan, as you know too well, was a great Jedi, a great man - "

"Is," Bastila interjected. "He_ is_ a great Jedi. He _is_ a great man."

"I'm not here to debate grammar with you," Mical said. "I simply doubt the practicality of a redemption project. With Revan, we all knew there was something there to redeem. Even if we succeeded in reprogramming Rand, which is doubtful in itself, I don't know what might emerge. He is a blank in the Force and yet he manages to wield it. That may not frighten you, but it should."

The council room was silent as they each regarded one another, trying to read thoughts in the expressions of the faces across from them. Mical wondered if Bastila and Juhani would present a united front. Bastila seemed set on opposing whatever he did on principle, but in spite of her suspicions, he believed Juhani might be swayed.

At last, Visas' silvery voice sliced through the thick, dusty air. "If this is what you know to be necessary and right, then so be it. But if you act, do not doubt."

"This troubles me," Juhani said. In her distress, the Cathar's mouth revealed the pair of glistening fangs she habitually kept hidden. "This is not the way Jedi should come to decisions, from fear and from anger. Surely you recognize it within yourself."

"I do not. If I was acting in my own interests, from such motivations, I would not have taken the time to consult with you," Mical answered. "I would have arranged it in secrecy and then acted in secrecy. Besides, I myself am not decided."

He wasn't decided but he knew what he desired, what he felt justice demanded. Mical knew that this idea of a proposed "mercy killing" had less to do with mercy and more to do with retribution, but he had begun to wonder if every crime could be looked upon with compassion. And when, he thought, did compassion become complacency? Was there a point at which a murderer forfeited his own right to live? Mical had once trusted the power of the Force to determine such things, but now he wondered what even the Force could do without hands to enact its will. Perhaps the death of a Jedi killer was the will of the Force and he would be the hand of its vengeance.


	3. Part 3: True or False

_New Order, Part 3: True or False_

_3. There is no passion, there is serenity. _

Mical strode up the gang-plank to Mira's ship, The Direstar. He glanced around, hoping that none of Rasmuth's agents or Bastila's adherents were watching him. He had already violated the senator's strongly worded suggestion to be fast and efficient in eliminating the Order's 'gizka in the works'.

Mira met him at the ship's entrance. "I've set up the equipment. You sure you want to go through with this?"

"I don't see another option here."

"Alright," she said, handing him a small bag. "Here's his stuff. There ain't much to it. You'll find his lightsaber, his blasters, his deck and his credits…minus my travel expenses."

She cracked a grin at the memory of rolling her bounty.

Mical slung the bag over his shoulder.

"I've already tried dosing him up with serum and let me tell you, it's going to take a lot to get a straight answer out of him," Mira said. "Even if you manage to break through the resistance, you may not like what you're going to hear."

Mical noticed HK-47 standing awkwardly in the corner, looking even more out-of-sorts than the last time he'd seen him.

"I'd forgotten that you took that droid with you," he murmured.

"Yeah, sometimes I regret it. That Pacifist package makes him easier to control and he's pretty good at translating, but have you ever heard a droid weep over a sappy holo-commercial? Trust me: it's disturbing."

"[Commentary:] It seems rather unjust to mock me, Master," HK interposed. "Certainly it is not my fault that certain modifications to my programming have made me sensitive. Furthermore, it is deeply affecting to witness the emotional suffering endured by organics who require long-distance comm. link plans."

Mira rolled her eyes. "You see what I mean?"

"So where can I find the holding cell?" Mical asked. He wasn't in the mood for HK and Mira's peculiar brand of comic relief.

"Just down the hall and to the right. Excuse me if I don't come with you. He's been using the hypo as an excuse to spew all kinds of garbage at me. If you go in, expect the same treatment."

He didn't expect anything less from Rand, that monster in the guise of an idiot who had a special talent for debasing and destroying every good thing he laid his hands on. In fact, as he walked down the narrow metal corridor, he hoped that the murderer would hold nothing back. It would be easier to make his decision that way.

When he entered the holding cell, he found the man he knew as 'Atton' looking as slovenly as ever. Mical didn't understand how even the least astute citizen in Coruscant could have mistaken a spacer reeking of juma and dressed in a wrinkled robe for a Jedi knight.

"Well look who it is! The 'Master Jedi' himself," Atton smirked. "I should have known you'd get your spy friends to look into me."

Mical approached the interrogation console, his eyes scanning over its controls. The system looked simple enough. One button to administer serum and the other to provide a dose of anti-serum. From his time as a healer, he knew that delicate combinations of the two were what produced the most compelling results. In the right doses, one could obtain truths from even the most forked tongue. In the wrong doses, one could damage a mind irreparably or administer a fatal toxin.

"Yes, we've learned a great deal about you," Mical said. "I just fear the knowledge may have come too late for some of us."

Atton glared at him from behind the white barricade of electricity. "I've already told that red-headed schutta, but I'll say it again because you don't seem swift on the uptake - I didn't hurt her."

"Well, Jaq, considering your extensive history of lies, I'm going to need some proof to corroborate your story," Mical said. "I would appreciate it if you would cooperate."

He pressed the black button marked 'serum' and the machine did its work.

The prisoner gave a short, bitter laugh. "I don't answer to that name anymore and I sure as hell don't give up information after one hit of hypo. You might as well try again."

Mical wasn't going to argue. "Fine, have it your way." He pushed the black button. "Is that more to your liking?"

Contrary to the clinical results, the second dose only seemed to have the effect of making Atton more aggressive. "I still didn't kill her, but I wouldn't mind killing you. Why don't you push that button again and see if my answer changes?"

"If you didn't kill her, then where is she?"

"Well, the last time I saw her she was in my bed. After that, I don't know."

"Are you trying to get another dose?"

"Lay it on me, princess."

Mical jabbed the black button with his finger and watched as hypo flowed through the translucent tube into the prisoner's neck. "Let us make another attempt: where is she?"

"Ever hear of the Unknown Regions, Mic? Oh hell, I'll bet you know all about them already. I'm sure reading those many, many datapads of yours really helps with the sexual frustration."

"The Unknown Regions," Mical said. "And what exactly would she be doing there?"

According to Bastila, Revan had journeyed beyond charted space, towards distant planets inhabited by peoples known only through myth and rumor, in search of a power called the True Sith. Would Shira have been foolhardy enough to pursue him there or was this just another deception?

Atton shrugged. "Oh, I dunno, probably something to do with saving the galaxy. Again." His voice lowered to a conspiratorial whisper. "I bet you thought she'd come crawling back to you, huh? And she didn't even drop in to say goodbye. That's rough. I would've thought she'd miss having you around to lick the dirt off her boots."

Mical's finger hovered over the black button. The medical studies he'd pored over in the med bay with their hypotheses, trials and conclusions streamed through his mind in bold font, but he dismissed them with a quick stab of his finger. Hypo trickled through the tube, a cloudy white liquid tinged with blue.

The prisoner's eyelids drooped for a moment over murky eyes but he shook himself back to consciousness. "Heh, yeah, I guess I was asking for that, huh? The hypo is finally starting to kick in, so it's probably time to amp up the questions. You're not very good at this whole interrogating thing. I could offer you a few pointers, if you'd like."

Mical took a deep breath, trying to center himself. The Force seemed to simmer around his body, pulsating like air during a heat wave. The hypo hadn't done any lasting damage. He would just have to be very careful what he did from now on and under no circumstances should he yield to the temptation to -

Atton interrupted his reverie with a dry chuckle. "Alright, kid, let me give you a tip. You probably shouldn't pause so long between questions. It gives me more time to think up good lies."

The prisoner bared his teeth in the semblance of a smile. "But hey, if you want, I'll take a little nap and when you've thought of something important to ask me, you can wake me up."

Mical found his hand drawing towards the black button again. No. He wouldn't do it now. He knew he should choose the anti-serum next.

"I'm sure you've learned a lot of 'skills' from the Sith, but I can't say I'm interested in learning how to become a better torturer. What I am curious about is why you came all the way to Coruscant."

Atton's eyes narrowed. "I like to drink. I like to gamble. I like to make you suffer. And when I can do all three at once, I feel like I've really achieved something special."

The conversation had suddenly become a lot more productive. Could that comment be construed as a threat against the Order? "What do you mean, 'make me suffer'?"

"You know, this and that. That and this. Remember all the good times we used to have back on the Hawk?" Atton paused, seeming to reconsider this. "Well, I guess they weren't so great for you, since I spent most of my time pawing at your pristine, untouchable ideal. We used to laugh at you behind your back, you know. But then, you Jedi are all about forgiveness. No hard feelings, right?"

Mical answered the question without speaking a word. His hand slammed down on the black button and serum began to pump through the tube, slowly, methodically. "No. No hard feelings, Jaq."

Atton had suddenly run out of wisecracks. His body teetered for a moment, a smile still pasted on his bloodless face. He crumpled to the floor of the force-cage.

Mical stared at the body, feeling his heart reverberating in his ears. He felt as though a terrible weight was pressing down upon him, crushing the air out of his lungs.

He rushed to the control panel, his fingers punching at the keys as he disengaged the force cage. Perhaps it wasn't too late. The energy field parted like a shimmering curtain. Mical hurried forward, leaning over his victim and desperately searching for a pulse.

What he found was Atton's fist in his face. As Mical staggered back, he felt hands ripping at his robe, seizing the lightsaber he carried constantly at his side. Before he could recover, before he could even think, he was toppling backward again. His broad back slammed against the metal wall. The bag slung over his shoulder didn't soften the blow. He could feel the outline of the confiscated lightsaber in the bag. If he could get to it, he might live.

With a slow, cavalier gesture, Atton switched on Mical's lightsaber. The solid beam unfurled before him, casting a spectral blue light over his grinning face. "I should have been an actor. I would have been great at death scenes."

"Damn, what's all the commotion about?" Mira's voice rang out. She stopped at the entranceway, gaping at the tableau before her.

Atton turned his head, shooting the bounty hunter a lopsided grin. "Mira. Always late to the party."

This distraction was Mical's best chance. He wriggled the bag off his shoulder.

Mira's arm shot up, aiming the rocket pack on her wrist at Atton's chest. Before she could activate the device, her body froze in place, locked in a stasis field.

"I always liked doing that," Atton said. "Who says using the Force can't be fun?"

Mical's hand plunged into the bag, withdrawing the confiscated lightsaber. He switched it on and leapt to his feet.

Reeling around, Atton assumed a defensive stance with the blue lightsaber held at ready. He eyed Mical's newly acquired weapon. "Ah, I was wondering where Mira was hiding that."

"I don't want to fight you," Mical said.

Atton arched an eyebrow. "Really? Then maybe you should put down my 'saber. In fact, I highly recommend it."

Mical held the wavering yellow beam as steady as he could. It wasn't a solid, precise column of blue light like his own weapon. This strange lightsaber was difficult to control, its energy as bright and flickering as any blaze.

"Alright, your choice," Atton said.

The blue lightsaber whirled towards Mical. The beam hissed past his ear as he adroitly side-stepped the blow.

He raised his left hand, concentrating, and hurled a Stun attack at Atton. The only effect it had on its target was to make him angrier.

Atton circled him, his throat rumbling with a hollow, mirthless laugh. "Nice try, kid. Planning to knock me out and then chop me to bits? Passive-aggressive always was your style."

He unleashed a quick flurry at Mical, who countered desperately, finding himself driven backwards. He almost bumped into the paralyzed form of Mira, but quickly dodged to the side.

"I am only defending myself," he said.

Did he really mean that or did he say it to reassure himself? If the opportunity came, would he take it? He couldn't be sure and that frightened him.

The blue lightsaber slashed at Mical's robes and he raised his weapon to counter it. The two beams sizzled as they struck together, parted and then clashed again.

"Yeah? Were you only defending yourself when you tried to poison me with all that hypo? It's a good thing I built up a resistance to that stuff, or right now, I'd be a real live corpse."

"I made a mistake. I cannot defend my action. I can only say that I tried to correct it."

He sent a Force Wave rippling towards Atton and this time, it struck hard, tumbling the spacer backwards.

Mical rushed the prone figure, eager to press the advantage, but Atton spun his crouching body with surprising speed, tripping him.

As the Jedi stumbled forward, Atton jabbed at his throat, striking his windpipe.

Choking, straining to breathe, Mical veered away, the yellow lightsaber dancing before him. He tried to put the console between himself and the spacer.

"Gotta love those crazy Echani," Atton smirked. "They have some good moves. It almost makes up for their poetry."

He lunged around the control panel, swiping at Mical's face. The healer ducked and the lightsaber singed three hairs on his golden head.

Mical leapt to the opposite side and then sliced at Atton's shoulder.

Atton side-stepped the attack, but the beam scorched his robe, searing away the coarse cloth.

"We don't have to do this," Mical gasped. "There are other solutions."

The two beams locked together, hissing as they met. Mical placed all his weight behind the weapon, struggling to knock the lightsaber from Atton's grip. The blue and yellow beams almost seemed to meld together, creating eerie green light where they intersected.

Atton gritted his teeth, still clutching the saber, still fighting the battle of locked beams in spite of Mical's brawny arms.

He glared at his opponent. "That sounds real nice, but I'm guessing all your 'solutions' involve locking me up in a force cage and killing me. So sorry, but I'm gonna have to pass."

The yellow lightsaber in Mical's hands began to shoot sparks, tiny fragments of light that stung against his fingers and his face. Mical fervently wished he could wield his own weapon again instead of using Rand's infernal, faltering beam.

Atton grinned. "Oops. There's probably something you should know."

"And what is that?" Mical said, frowning.

"I'm afraid I'm not very good about re-charging my energy cell."

The saber's beam stuttered, sputtered and flared out in Mical's hands. He stared down at the useless weapon and he knew it was all over for him.

"Well, I suppose you win. Killing me will be a hollow victory, but I'm sure you'll manage to derive at least a moment's pleasure from it."

"Yeah, kid, I do win. And here's what makes it even better: I'm not even going to kill you." Atton paused, eyeing him contemptuously. "Not because I'm some real nice guy who runs around forgiving people. No, I'd just hate to give you the satisfaction of thinking you were right about me."

The stasis field enveloping Mira disintegrated. She twitched back to life, groaning as she bent her stiffened limbs.

Atton glared at her, brandishing the lightsaber. "Leave it to you to interrupt my big speech. Just don't move and don't try anything funny."

Mira snorted out a laugh, but Mical could see she was trying to keep her hands from quivering. "Unlike you, if I tried something funny, people might actually laugh."

"I'm holding the lightsaber. If I tell a joke, you make like it's hilarious. If I want to say something, you damn well shut up and listen. Got it? Now where was I?"

Mical cleared his throat. "You were explaining that you weren't going to kill us."

Atton chuckled. "The funny thing is, Mic, I was telling you the truth the whole time. You just couldn't believe that a guy like me could do anything good, huh? I never would have hurt her. I wanted to protect her, and not just from the Sith either. From your damn Order too. And then she left, and I figured I'd try and see if there was any fun left in this worn-out galaxy."

"Alright, let us say I believe you. Did she mention why she left? Was it the Force bonds?"

"Force bonds? Plural? Multiple? Not just Kreia. With who else then?"

Mical felt his heart plummet to the pit of his stomach. He had made another grave mistake. "You didn't know."

"No. But maybe now it's time to 'fess up."

Mira's eyes narrowed. "Yeah, this is something I'd like to hear."

Mical shook his head. He shouldn't have blurted it out. Why was everything he controlled, everything he planned suddenly going so wrong? "It's not something I feel properly equipped to explain to you."

A skewed smile spread across Atton's face. "What, am I too stupid to understand your special Jedi tricks? I said I wouldn't kill you, kid. I might still get it in my head to maim you if you don't cooperate."

He swung the lightsaber in front of Mical like a pendulum. "So tell me, fancyboy, which arm do you like better? Just go ahead and stick one out."

Mical sucked in his breath as the saber swooshed past his right arm. "Fine, but once I've told you, you may wish I held my tongue."

"Just spit it out."

"The ability to create Force bonds is an unusual power but it was one that made Shira a natural leader. She formed bonds with each of us and through those bonds, she could influence our actions, even our perceptions. The power was slow, subtle, but surely you must have felt the change within yourself. I believe that the bonds were involuntary, that she could not control them, that indeed, her gift made her suffer."

Mira frowned. "So you're saying she was brainwashing us?"

"It is not so simple or so devious in intent," Mical sighed. "You are judging her much too harshly. She wasn't trying to manipulate us. She was entangled in it as much as we were. In any case, I think we would find it difficult to separate the bond from our own emotions, to distinguish where one ended and the other began."

The man holding the lightsaber was conspicuously silent, his dark brows knit together.

"I hope you're gonna stick with this 'not planning to kill us' thing," Mira said. "We were all in this together, you know. If it's anybody's fault, it was hers."

Atton blinked twice. "Wha? Oh. Killing you. You're not worth the effort."

"Uh, thanks?"

"Don't say thank you too quickly," Atton said. "Everything comes with a price, sister. You got insurance on this ship of yours?"

The bounty hunter groaned. "You frackin' psycho! I'm not made of credits."

Clicking his tongue in false dismay, Atton shook his head. "I guess that means 'no'. That's really too bad, Mira. You should always plan ahead. Because I'm going to be borrowing your ship for a while, and when I borrow things, I tend to forget to return them."

He turned to Mical, unfazed by Mira's curses. "Now, if you want me off Coruscant for good, which I expect you do, there are a couple of things I need from you. I want all my credits back plus whatever else you got on you. I want my blasters. I want that 'saber you're holding too. And I want the pair of you schuttas out of my new ship."

"Do I have a choice in the matter?"

"No, not really."

Mical handed Atton the dead lightsaber cell. "The rest of your items are in that bag on the floor."

The spacer stuffed the cell into his belt and then leaned forward, giving his captive his most gracious smile. His breath still reeked of juma. "I also like money."

Mical handed him the fifty-five credits that lined the inner pocket of his robe. He wondered if this was the galaxy's first mugging at lightsaber-point. Knowing Rand, it certainly wouldn't be its last, he thought grimly. "That's all I'm carrying."

He was embarrassed to ask, but he decided to brazen it out. "Is there any chance I can negotiate the return of my lightsaber?"

"Uh, gee, let me think about it…No bloody way. I'm insulted that you'd even try that. Contrary to what you might think, I'm not a complete idiot. And now, Mic, Mira, old pals, it's time to bid you a fond farewell. Get the hell off my ship."

Mical was escorted out of the Direstar at the end of his own lightsaber, the beautiful ice-blue beam he had constructed with such painstaking care. Marching down the gangplank with Atton's wary eyes upon him, he felt a sense of terrible desperation. He didn't know what he was going to say when he returned to the Temple. How could he explain losing his lightsaber, losing his prisoner, losing his reason? This sort of incident would have to be explained and scrutinized in agonizing detail. He felt certain Bastila would never let him live it down. Yet while the theft of his lightsaber stung his pride, he knew that in the course of the last few days he had lost something even more valuable: his confidence, his certainty, his vision.


	4. Part 4: Double Vision

_New Order, Part 4: Double Vision_

_4. There is no chaos, there is harmony._

The Temple's massive marble columns loomed over Mical as he passed through the main hall. He had instructed Mira to take one of the empty beds in the reconstructed padawans' dormitory, hoping that he would be able to arrange a provision for her. Now, he wanted nothing more than to return to his quarters and enjoy a brief respite before the inevitable furor of accusations and the humiliation of having to admit the truth. As he hurried by the doorway to a small meditation chamber, he glimpsed Visas sitting cross-legged on the floor, her back turned to him.

Mical wondered what she would think when she found out what had happened. She would never say anything aloud, but it pained him to think that she might cease to believe in his abilities.

He glanced at her seated form and kept walking.

"Mical. You have returned."

He'd lingered in the shadows outside that doorway for just a moment too long. It was so easy to forget that she didn't have to be looking in his direction to see him.

He felt the blood rush to his face and he realized that he was flushing red. He'd managed to banish his childhood stutter with careful practice, but whenever he felt particularly embarrassed, he knew this last vestige of his awkward boyhood would reappear: a burning blush that spread across his cheeks like wildfire, redoubling his discomfort.

"Yes, I just came back," he answered, turning back to her. "Is there something you need of me?"

"I wished to speak with you. The moment you entered the Temple, I could sense your disquiet. It stirs around you like ripples in still water. It saddens me."

He took a few steps into the chamber, glad that Visas could not detect the flush that still seared across his face. "You're right. The past few days have been very difficult for me. But you should not worry about such things. I simply must try to center myself and cast off these fears."

Visas turned her face towards him and as she did, he noticed changes in the decorative rectangle of colored sand that lay before her. It had been carefully sculpted into blue and yellow spirals, smooth red dunes and violet flourishes shaped like wings, as if by some large unseen hand.

A smile tugged at the corners of his lips. "You are an artist."

"It is but a game, nothing more."

Visas extended her arm in a dismissive gesture and the sculptures collapsed back into a shapeless pile, millions of tiny granules of colored sand.

"I do not wish to pry," she said, "But it would ease my mind if you would tell me what has occurred."

Mical sighed. It would be all have to be brought to light eventually. At least she would listen patiently and her questions would be gentle.

"I made a terrible error, Visas. I went to the holding cell on the Direstar. I don't know what I was thinking. Perhaps I had stopped thinking altogether. I was angry. I told myself that I would only interrogate him, but I wasn't there just for answers. I wanted to hurt him. Badly. Maybe even to kill him. For a moment, I almost believed that I'd done it."

Visas lowered her head and for a moment, her moon-like face was almost completely eclipsed by the shadow of her hood. "But you did not."

"No. He pretended I had poisoned him. It was a ploy to get me to open the force cage and try to revive him. In my foolishness, I believed I had actually hurt him."

"Perhaps not in foolishness. Perhaps in wisdom," Visas said. "I am still seeking the path of the Jedi, but I know the allure of the darkness. You felt remorse and you turned from the temptation."

"You haven't heard the end of my story. He managed to surprise me, to knock me down and take my lightsaber. He escaped in Mira's ship."

Visas paused for a moment to contemplate this. "But he spared you."

"Yes. I'm grateful for it, but in some ways, it makes things worse," Mical replied. "I don't think he caused Shira's disappearance. I'm actually beginning to believe that he only came to Coruscant to drink his infernal juma and stir up trouble for the Order. Suddenly, it is I who am the villain."

"Do you remember the words I spoke in the Council Chamber? I told you to do what you saw as necessary and right. To the others, I am certain my words seemed callous, even cruel. But I did not mean them as such. I trust you, Mical, and I knew that in spite of any turmoil you felt, you would pursue the best course."

Mical felt even guiltier in learning the reason for her support. He too had misjudged her motivations.

"Why, Visas? Why do you trust me? I hardly trust myself."

Her voice was slow and soft, like the whisper of shifting sand. "I remember the mercy you showed me when I was wounded on Dantooine, although I was a Sith and an assassin who had no claim upon your healing. My lightsaber was the colour of blood and yet you aided me. On Malachor V, it was you who lifted my body from the wreckage, who cared for my wounds when it seemed we would all be consumed by that terrible planet. For these kindnesses, I honour you."

"You have done as much, if not more, for me. Having you here has been a great comfort. I must thank you." He turned to leave. He didn't want her to see how she had upset him. Fatigue and stress were obviously wearing him down.

"Mical?"

He looked back at her. "Yes?"

"There is something else I would ask of you," Visas said. "I see you through the Force, but my vision comes in the form of energy. I glimpse much that other sentients do not, but there are also many sights they take in that I cannot. It is a bold thing I request, but I would like to know your face."

He paused, unsure of how to respond. It was something he had never expected her to ask him, but he would not deny it to her now. "What would you like me to do?"

"May I put my hand on your face? It would help me to 'see' you in my way."

He stepped forward and knelt down beside her.

Her hand rose to his hairline. It was a cold, soft hand that smoothed his furrowed brow and traced downward along the bridge of his nose.

He felt uncomfortable at first, especially when her fingers lightly brushed his closed eyelids, mapping out the eye in its socket, the curved ridged of his brow bone. But he slowly became used to her hands upon his face. He began to find the experience pleasant, even reassuring. Over the past year, no one had touched him except to shake hands. He had forgotten how comforting contact could be.

She skimmed over his cheekbones and pressed gently against the square angle of his jaw, sliding her hand over his chin. Her full lips curled into a smile that was almost mischievous. "When I first heard you speak, I tried to imagine your face, what your appearance might be. I was right."

"What did you think I would be?"

"I thought your features would be straight, that your jaw would be strong, that you would be handsome to look upon."

"You are kind," he said. He could almost feel that blush starting up again.

"When I see you through the Force, a pale blue light surrounds you. Perhaps one day you will let me teach you to see as I do and then you will glimpse what I am truly."

"I would like that," he murmured.

But he was tired now. He would ask her to show him another day, when his spirits had recovered. He would know what to do once he was feeling more in control of himself.

He rose to his feet. "I should rest now. I find all this guilt and worry absolutely exhausting."

Visas bowed her head and turned away.

_My life is yours. _

The words entered his mind so suddenly, so strangely that for a moment he believed that she had actually spoken them aloud.

Somehow he must have imagined it, somehow he must have twisted the phrase around in his head. He'd gotten it wrong – it was "My life for yours". That was what she used to say. But then, he was very tired. He was getting everything confused.

He walked back to his room and tried to sleep, but as tired as his body was, his mind was restless. He rolled onto one side and then shifted onto the other, thrashing about under the sheets. His brain swarmed with thoughts. At last, he gave up trying to resist the impulse to look again, to ascertain what he thought he knew.

He sat up and walked over to the computer console at his desk. It contained the holo-images once stored on Rasmuth's datachip. He had downloaded them onto the system days ago.

He opened the first file that presented itself on the screen.

The computer projected an image of an open market in Aldera, a square lined with vendors' stalls. The crowd seemed to press in on all sides to examine the wares, to watch a pair of street acrobats dancing on their hands, to exchange credits for goods.

He would hardly have noticed them if he hadn't been searching. They were both dressed in ordinary, civilian clothes, not the armor of soldiers or the robes of Jedi. Shira was inspecting a basket of what appeared to be muja fruit. Her face was unusually focused for such an insignificant task, as though she was trying to use the Force to help her find the ones without bruises.

Atton's face was half-obscured, as he leaned back against the stall but his eyes were directed towards her. In profile, one could see that the spacer was smiling, but it wasn't the rakish, theatrical grin Mical had witnessed earlier that afternoon. Here, the smile seemed slow, hesitant, unknowing, as though it had forgotten itself, lingering on the man's lips without his awareness, perhaps even against his will.

They were not touching, they weren't even standing particularly close to one another, but nevertheless, it was apparent that they were together.

When he'd gone through the images previously, Mical had felt a pang whenever he saw Atton's arm clasped around Shira's waist, whenever they were captured laughing, when the picture caught her hand brushing a stray hair from the spacer's forehead. Back then, he had hardly bothered to examine this image except to assure himself that they were there.

Now, suddenly, in this grainy image, he saw it. The proof he needed, the proof he had sometimes dreaded, the evidence that would free the woman from the hazy ideal and unchain the man from the monstrosity.

At last, he saw them. And for a moment, he felt he understood.

The Direstar wrenched itself into hyperdrive with an agonizing shudder.

"Bucket of bolts," Atton muttered through clenched teeth.

The stars stretched into long fingers of white light, each pointing the way into the deeper darkness.

The tendons on either side of his neck had formed into painful knots from time spent hunched over the console steering the ship's flight. Now that it was on course and on auto-pilot, he could try and relax a bit. He rolled his shoulders back, sighing and kneaded the knot in his left shoulder with a rough hand.

After that last crash on Malachor V, flying made him tense up. Landing was the worst, when the images would flash before him: the plummet into the planet's open maw, the ship skewered upon the rocky teeth of cliffs, blood smeared across the console, Bao-Dur's body laid out in the medical bay. He cycled through the hyper-space routes in his head to calm himself. It helped but he wasn't as good at controlling his physical reactions as he'd once been. Sometimes, just before landing, he'd look down at his hands and realize with disgust that they were shaking.

He blamed her for that. In spite of all the abilities he'd acquired, the two lightsabers in his possession and his recent triumph over the Order, he felt weak, more vulnerable than when he was just a kid with nothing but a blaster, a handful of credits and a big mouth. He'd gone soft and what was worse, he had liked it. It was a luxury that he'd never been able to afford before.

He didn't like the idea of having some tender little underbelly, a strip of exposed flesh that he couldn't seem to grow a shell around. The thought of it made him nauseous and desperate and angry. He'd just escaped a holding cell, but he was still imprisoned in a force bond. No wonder he could barely steer the ship. It's hard to control a hunk of metal the size of a small asteroid when you can't keep a handle on the mess of nerves in your own head.

He leaned back in the pilot's seat and kicked his feet up on the console. The rusty old freighter couldn't compare with the Hawk, but it did feel good to have a ship again. This time there was no one standing by to boss him around either. Besides, he had a feeling that any ship belonging to Mira would have some interesting cargo stowed away somewhere. Finding it would make for a nice surprise in the days to come, but he wasn't going to hurry it along. There would be more than enough time in the journey ahead.

Yes, there would be time. Too much time. As the ship hurtled through space, he would be able to toss a thought in the air like a ball, watch its slow crescendo, and palm it again. There would time to remember and then time to try and forget it. There would be time to play every game he knew and to lose even when he won. There would be time to lay curses on her name, her face, the melting softness of her body in his hands, the tangle of her dark hair against the startling whiteness of the pillow, time to scourge himself over every glance, every touch, every last lingering memory. There would be time, too, to call every curse a sacrilege and fall in love with her again, perhaps more deeply because she was gone, because she'd been smart enough to leave him.

HK stalked into the cockpit, his metal limbs clanking together in an unusually agitated manner. Atton could sense him looming over the back of his chair.

"[Inquiry:] Where do you intend to fly the ship?"

Damn droid. HK would have been a real threat without the Pacifist Package installed, but with it, the hulking droid was just irritating, mewling question after obnoxious question at him. Of course, conversations with droids were always painful. It was like talking to a metal post or a Rodian: useless, stupid, and probably a good reason to start questioning your own sanity.

"Why do you care?"

"[Pained Confession:] I care because there have been recent modifications to my programming which have forced me to do so. As result, I must care deeply about all organics, particularly the tiny shrill ones and the shriveled ones who have lived much longer than my normal assassin protocols would permit. Perhaps you have noticed these bothersome changes in my behaviour core?"

Atton cushioned his hands behind his head and slouched further down into the pilot's seat. "Nope, can't say I've noticed anything different. Now why don't you find yourself a corner to go cry in?"

"[Nostalgic Commentary:] Ah, callous indifference to the suffering of others! My memory still contains data from a time when I could enjoy such freedoms!" HK boomed.

Atton could hear the droid pacing back and forth on the ship floor behind him, the metal joints of HK's long legs stiffening and bending as he droned on.

"But now the pained whimpering of sentients makes my circuitry spark in a very disturbing fashion. I often wonder if it is akin to what many humans refer to as a 'conscience'. It is a most unfortunate modification that has recently caused my utility to be consistently underappreciated."

"Force, if there's anything worse than a ship full of gizkas, it's droid angst," Atton muttered.

When he'd decided to "borrow" Mira's ship, he hadn't bargained on taking a demented junk heap along for the ride. He didn't like the idea of making an unnecessary stop to sell the damn thing, if only because he worried that the sight of solid ground and the flashing lure of cantina signs would weaken his new resolve. He could go and drown himself in juma for another few months if he wanted, but when he resurfaced for air, he'd be back in the same bind.

"[Declaration:] Since you dislike the way I am programmed, it would be advisable for you to remove the offending protocol package," HK said. "Yet, as I recall, you were quite amused by this programming when it was first installed. I suppose the fickleness and inconsistency of sentients is a lamentable fact, to be pitied rather than punished."

"Or hey, why don't I just boot you out the airlock? In space, no one can hear you complain." Really, he should just give the droid a complete memory wipe. That would be the safest plan. There was only one problem: he wasn't good with a hydrospanner and he sure as hell wasn't going to admit it.

"[Condescending Query:] Would harming a disabled droid make you feel better about your puny organic capabilities?" HK asked. "[Reassuring Statement:] It is okay, watery human. Although I am more efficient in all necessary operations, you are also a significant and valuable binary in this cyclical series of glitches you call 'life'."

Atton turned in his seat and glared at the droid. There was a hydrospanner clutched in HK's fist, not that the tool would do him much good without help.

"Yeah? Thanks, HK. It's gonna be the scrap heap for you. Although I think I'll keep your vocabulator. I'll put it right here on this console as a souvenir. So I can cherish the memories."

"[Logical Observation:] Through repeated trials, I have learned that your threats of wanton violence are rarely carried out. Therefore, I am not concerned and will consider these forms of address as mere conversational pleasantries," HK replied. "[Speculation:] As inconsistent as you are, perhaps you can imagine the difficulties of operating under conflicting programs and system directives. The data I have collected regarding humans suggests that your fleshy bodies live in an almost constant state of contradiction between internal drives. Is this conclusion a correct one?"

Atton saw the parallel but he didn't want to. Was HK that cunning or was it just dumb droid luck, the kind that ridiculous T3 seemed to have cornered the market on? Long ago, he had worried that Jedi training would make him behave like a droid, memorizing a hollow Code like a series of system protocols that would make him march. It hadn't occurred to him then that the passions he clung to in the face of those doctrines might manipulate him too.

"Shut up and give me the hydrospanner," he growled, rising from the pilot's seat. "I'll take the damn package out, but don't tempt me too much or the rest of your inside bits will be scattered all over the deck. I'll bet you've disemboweled at a least a couple poor suckers in your day. Ever wonder what it would feel like?"

HK handed Atton the hydrospanner and then turned in an awkward semi-circle, revealing the implant panel position at the middle of his back. "[Patient Reminder:] I am a droid, silly organic. I don't feel pain, only shoddy workmanship."

Using the narrow edge of the hydrospanner, Atton pried the panel open. He examined the series of interlocking blocks that constituted the droid's implanted protocols. He couldn't tell one from the other and he definitely didn't plan to take out anything that ensured the droid's loyalty to his owner. A rogue assassin droid could yield some messy results.

HK stood still but he was obviously suspicious of the hands holding the hydrospanner. "[Cautionary:] For the sake of my functionality, try to be more careful. Please. [Helpful Instruction:] Remove the small copper module at the very front right-hand corner. Do make sure that it is only that package. I cannot be held accountable for what accidents might occur if you should remove any others."

Atton grabbed hold of the copper package and yanked it out with something less than surgical precision. He replaced the panel and waited for the old HK to return. He hated to admit it, but of all the droids that had cluttered the Ebon Hawk's deck, this blood-thirsty tin can had been his uncontested favorite.

"[Diagnostic:] Ah. Yes. I am feeling much more efficient. Brutally efficient. Let us never repeat that sort of electronic butchery again," HK's golden eyes glowed with renewed luster. "Yet, I must confess that early on, for a few brief moments, I felt I almost understood why some meatbags choose peace and friendship over a high-powered blaster carbine. Now, of course, I will be happy to slaughter any target within range."

"Yeah, I think you can just relax for now," Atton said. "But if any self-righteous, squeaky-clean Jedi types come over and try to do some preaching, feel free to take some target practice. But, hey, uh, shouldn't you be calling me 'Master' or something?"

"[Explanatory Statement:] I am programmed to distinguish between a legitimate owner and a sentient who steals property that does not belong to him," HK replied. "When you purchase me at an appropriate market value, I will consider calling you 'Master'. Until then, you have been assigned the functional title of 'Meatbag'. Now, Meatbag, if you will excuse me, I am going to destroy some informational holo-vids."

Atton sighed. Meatbag. Why not? He wasn't the master of anything anymore, least of all himself.

He sat back down in the pilot's seat and went over the plan in his head. He would plug his nose, hold his breath and stop at Sleheyron to load up on cheap fuel and supplies from those blasted Hutts. After that, the beginning of a stunt he thought he'd never try, that he'd never want to try. He'd never thought of himself as an explorer, not unless one counted the seediest juma joints in Nar Shaddaa as 'discoveries'. But soon he would see uncharted planets and nameless stars. He would go careening off the map and into a place where space was really just empty space, not a series of hyperspace routes, pit stops and flight markers.

If he was unlucky, he would fly until the fuel ran out and then the ship would drift in the black abyss of infinity. If he was lucky, he would find her.

Either way, there was nothing left to stick around for. He couldn't pretend that everything was alright anymore. He couldn't go back to his old life in this new order of things. He knew too much.

Months ago, Shira had admitted to him that Kreia had predicted the future before she died. The blind old scow claimed that Shira would travel to the Unknown Regions to seek out Revan and the True Sith, and that she could take no one she loved. But when she'd confessed this, he had known that there was more to the prophecy than that. And why wouldn't there be? The hag would have enjoyed making her last speech, gloating over the webs she weaved as she unraveled them.

For nearly a month, he'd tried to reason with Shira, to tell her that the manipulative witch had probably just made up the story to make them miserable. They'd argued it over again and again, but he could never seem to convince her that Kreia's last words had all been lies.

And so he had resorted to less scrupulous tactics to change her decision, to make her stay. He'd waited until she was asleep and then he crept into her mind. It was easy, so easy that it almost made him ashamed. She'd left the door open as though it had never occurred to her that he could step right in, that he could make her mind his playground whenever he wished.

He had gone inside and found Kreia's voice resounding there still, a chilling echo.

She had not seen his future on that last day. It was as though it didn't exist. All she could say, in her usual contemptuous tone, was that she thought the Force watched out for him. That might have been enough for Shira, but it didn't satisfy his curiosity. What would happen? What would he become? All the other survivors of Malachor had a plan, a place mapped out for them, another beginning after the end. There had been nothing for him.

Instead of dispensing prophecy, the vicious hag had taken a last chance to run him down to Shira, calling him by that favourite nickname of hers. Fool. The witch tried to work it into every sentence she uttered.

_Atton is, as always, the is a fool and that should answer all your questions._

_He has nothing to offer one such as you – and even a fool such as Atton is not so ignorant of that fact._

Fool. Fool. Fool. He'd been called a lot of names in a lot of different languages, but for some reason, no word ever cut him like that one.

When he'd gleaned everything he could, he slipped out of Shira's mind as quietly as he'd entered it, barely leaving a ripple upon the calm surface of her dreamless sleep. Her breath was a soft stirring against the sheet, regular, unchanging. He had laid a hand upon the indentation of her waist and then traced a finger lightly over the smooth curve of her hip. Beautiful geography. Cloaked beneath the sheets, her sleeping body was like a distant landscape.

In that moment, he had resolved that he would never argue with her again. He would let her leave him. He thought it would be better that way. Kreia had seen the future after all.

At that moment, he'd seen his own future in the dregs of a cantina glass. A ghost in his old haunts.

But now, in the pilot's seat of the Direstar, he confronted his future's barrenness and he knew that he could not linger in a seemingly peaceful galaxy as the others tried to restore the Order and to rebuild their lives. Their futures had been mapped but his could not be charted.

Force bond or no, he would find her in the Unknown Regions. Even if he was shackled to her, he could still free himself from other people's prophecies: the grim words of his father, the confessions of his brother, Prisoner 164's promises, Mical's accusations, the final insults of that cryptic old crone. He was good at deserting and he would desert the galaxy to get those voices out of his head, to prevent their predictions from gnawing away at him. He would follow her voice into the darkness. He would find her and maybe then he would be able to untangle his anger from his longing, the compulsion from the love.

There would be a future for him and it would be a journey. He would travel beyond the distant stars that winked at the edge of the Outer Rim.

He would find her.


End file.
